


become the beast

by sterekhale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:48:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29810736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterekhale/pseuds/sterekhale
Summary: Former FBI agent, Stiles Stilinski, puts his skills to use hunting and killing werewolves. It’s exactly the kind of lucrative and dangerous career he wants, which is why he can’t say no when given his next job: Abducting the Hale alpha for $1,000,000 — even if it may be the last job he ever does.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 49
Kudos: 251





	become the beast

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://sterekxhale.tumblr.com/) where I use my limited photoshop abilities to make things for my stories. Fic title taken from the song of the same name: Become the Beast by Karliene.

Drops of blood fall to the sink, staining the cobwebbed cracks. As he tries to wipe out all the dirt, the hydrogen peroxide stings the open wound on his cheekbone. A dark bruise already starts to bloom around the cut. Stiles finishes cleaning the wound and rubs off the dried blood that dripped down his face before he pulls the wound together with the butterfly stitches he always keeps on hand.

An ache has long since settled in his jaw from the punch and his ribs are sore from being tossed into a wall, but he fared well, all things considering.

He tosses away the dirty cloth before grabbing a beer from the mini-fridge. His laptop dings with a notification just as he twists off the beer cap. A posting on the bulletin.

Another job already? He hasn’t even been paid his second installment for this last one.

Sitting down at the desk, he checks the request.

_Werewolf — alpha, full shift abilities, alive for $1, 000 000, dead for $500 000._

He rereads the pay amount. It has to be a typo. Unless the target is higher profile than just any old alpha werewolf. Full shift. He only knew of a few werewolves with those abilities and they all came from the same family. Someone’s looking for the Hale alpha.

An impossible find after twelve years on the run, the Hale alpha might as well be dead, he didn’t pop up on any of Stiles’ surveillance. No activity on bank accounts, no renewal of licenses, nothing. And Stiles has tried for years to track him down. Besides having blue beta eyes _and_ biting three innocent teenagers who ended up being killed by another pack—which gives Stiles enough reasons to hunt him on its own—the Hale alpha is the ultimate meal ticket for a hunter.

All of his jobs recently have been easy. Not a challenge for someone with his training and experience. The Hale alpha would definitely be a challenge. And the payout didn’t hurt either, it would solve a few of his problems.

He accepts the job.

* * *

The assignment is simple, straightforward. Details were sent to him, providing a set of coordinates of the alpha's location. A forested area in Northern California, not far off from the alpha’s hometown — and his own for that matter. It almost takes the fun out of the hunt. But since he’s spent the last six years trying to find a shred of evidence to the Hale alpha’s location, it’s welcomed.

The only way to get to the location of the coordinates was to drive an overgrown fire road and hike in at the end of the road. He lost service a while back so there’s nothing to guide him through the forest but a paper map and a compass he barely knows how to use.

The coordinates aren’t connected to a house or building online, just endless trees and rugged terrain. Why did the person hire someone else to capture the alpha, and pay a pretty penny to do so, if they already knew his location? They must not have the physical capabilities needed to take down an alpha. Or, they didn’t want to risk it.

Stiles knows he’ll go down in a hunt. It’s been his fate for years, and he’s accepted it. He’ll take down as many werewolves as he can before that time.

He loads a pistol with rare wolfsbane bullets, shoving it in the back of his waistband, before grabbing his M16. Strapped to his lower leg, under his jeans, is a knife. It wouldn’t kill a werewolf, but it would give him enough of an advantage to escape the situation if it goes south.

Cold temperatures have turned the forest floor sparse, the floral having died off weeks ago. Fallen leaves crunch underneath each step, and he tries to navigate a quieter path. He’s miles out from the specific location, but he doesn’t know if the Hale alpha is running around the forest, or how far he's able to hear.

Alphas have better senses and abilities than betas and omegas. Normally, a werewolf could hear about a mile away, but an alpha may be able to hear twice or even three times that, which makes Stiles’ plan of sneaking up and observing a little more difficult.

In his backpack is a pair of binoculars, a bottle of water, and a winter jacket. He’s ready to spend the night camped out in a tree if he needs to, he likes to get a glimpse of his target before charging in guns blazing.

The fresh and cool scent of pine trees clears his head, preparing him for the coming fight.

All through his life, his mind has been a jumbled mess of racing thoughts and anxieties, he’s never been able to calm down and track a single thought the way he does during a hunt. It works better than any therapy, or workout routine, or drug he’s done. There's a stillness that sets into his body during a hunt that he doesn’t have in the rest of his life.

A couple miles from the coordinates, Stiles quiets himself, moving from rock to rock to the bare dirt patches between leaves. His feet hit the ground with soft thumps. His heart pounds in his chest, not nervously, but ready. Because he’ll pick fight over flight every time.

The wind blows against his face, dragging his scent away with it. Birds chirp around him and he wonders if they’re enough to cover his footsteps and heartbeat.

A log cabin comes into view through the thinning trees. It has to be where the alpha’s hiding out, where the coordinates converge. Stiles stops and pulls out the binoculars. The windows are all blocked out by curtains and there’s no lights on. There’s a small porch out front, and a shed beside the building.

No car parked nearby. No sign of life. Is it an old location? Has the alpha moved on?

Stiles doesn’t want to go charging in and discover the alpha hasn’t left so he pulls himself up onto a thick tree branch and settles in.

After an hour of no movement, a chill takes root in his spine. Just when he’s about to give up and head to the cabin to check it out, the door opens.

A man Stiles recognizes from old high school photographs as Derek Hale—the only living Hale left—emerges from the cabin. He’s aged well, growing in a beard, his shoulders are broad and his arms are thick. Stiles doesn’t dare to move an inch, any noise he makes could give away his location.

He breathes out only once the alpha walks toward the south and disappears in the forest.

Stiles gives it another couple of minutes before he shimmies down the tree and quickly makes his way toward the cabin. The alpha would be aware of the new scent, but Stiles is hoping to use that to his advantage.

Drive the alpha back out of the cabin where Stiles would be waiting in the trees with the M16. A few well-aimed shots of the rare wolfsbane and the alpha would be rendered useless. The problem? Getting his unconscious body out of the middle of the wilderness.

A problem that’s quickly solved when Stiles gets closer and realizes there’s an unmarked road behind the cabin. The bullets will knock the alpha out long enough Stiles could probably get back to his car and drive around to the road. He'd have to run, but he'd make it. 

There’s a woodpile stacked up against the back of the cabin under a tarp to keep it out of rain. Nothing else out of ordinary. He tests the backdoor. It’s unlocked. Switching off the safety on his gun, he turns the door handle.

There’s a crack of a twig beside him, the only warning he gets, before a flurry of movement takes him down. He lands on his back with a thud that winds him. The rifle skids across the ground out of his reach. The alpha’s eyes glow red as he plants a foot next to Stiles’ head and swings a chisel down aimed for Stiles’ throat.

Stiles catches the alpha’s arm, for a moment they're suspend with the alpha over top of him and Stiles barely holding him back from plunging the chisel into his throat, before Stiles twists the alpha's arm back with a quick motion. The bones crack and break. He takes the moment of distraction to land a hard kick to the alpha’s knee, sending him stumbling back and grunting with the pain.

Stiles pulls his pistol from his waistband, switches off the safety, cocks it, and shoots four bullets into the alpha from where he’s still lying on the ground.

Shoulder, stomach, both knees. Nothing that’d kill him, but the rare wolfsbane will make him lose consciousness in seconds flat and Stiles will be able to get back on track.

The shots don’t slow down the alpha like planned. He shifts, his face deforming into an ugly snarl, and he’s moving toward Stiles.

Too fast for Stiles to pull the trigger.

The alpha grabs his wrist and squeezes until Stiles’ grip loosens and he lets out a groan of pain, the alpha takes the pistol and aims it at Stiles’ head.

Stiles freezes in place.

“On your knees,” the alpha growls, yanking Stiles up. “Put your hands on your head and don’t think about moving.”

Slowly, Stiles raises his hands, kneeling on the wet dirt. The only sounds are their combined ragged breaths from the struggle. Even the birds have fallen silent in the alpha’s presence.

“Me against a lone werewolf? I like my odds,” Stiles says.

“Who are you?” the alpha asks. Stiles stays quiet. The end of the gun presses against the back of his head. “You think I have a problem with pulling the trigger?”

“Your real problem, _Derek_ , is who you are. If it’s not me who gets you, someone else will come for you. And another person after that. And another after that, and well, you get the idea.”

The gun drops away from his head. The alpha circles around to stand in front of Stiles. His clothing is soaked in blood where the bullets had hit. The bullets don’t seem to faze the alpha.

“Who sent you?” he says. Stiles glares up at him. The alpha crouches down, getting in Stiles’ face, and his eyes flicker red. “Who sent you?” he repeats, slower, with a snarl in his voice.

“Someone who’s willing to pay a lot for you,” Stiles says. He needs a distraction. Just a two second distraction.

The alpha stands up and backs away, he’s still within Stiles’ reach, but has the pistol aimed at Stiles’ head again. “If you have no useful information, then there’s no point in keeping you alive.” His finger slips down to the trigger.

“Wait!” Stiles shouts. Is his racing heart enough to cover a lie? “Wait! I have the job order in my pocket. It has all the information I know.”

The alpha’s mouth twists into a frown. “You think I’m naïve enough to fall for that?”

“I swear,” Stiles says. “I’m a hunter. I respond to jobs sent to me on an online bulletin. I printed it off!”

The alpha motions to Stiles’ pocket with the pistol. “Slowly.”

Stiles lowers his one hand. The alpha stares at him, he doesn't take his own gaze away from the alpha's red eyes. Each second feels like a minute as he gradually reaches for his back pocket. When his hand is down, past his waist, he pulls the knife from its sheath, jolting forward. A shot rings out. A miss.

He drives the knife into the alpha’s thigh and drags it down. It cuts through the flesh like scissors to paper.

The alpha roars and grabs him around the throat, pulling him up off the ground. Stiles sputters for air. The pressure builds in his head. He has no chance of survival if he passes out.

Stiles swings the knife down into the alpha’s shoulder. The clawed hand around his neck loosens and he gasps in a breath of air, he kicks once, twice, a third time at the alpha’s already injured knee before there’s the sound of a snap.

He lands on his knees and hands. Trying to catch his breath as he searches for his M16 that went flying during the first tackle. There’s a rustle of motion behind him, and then something hits the back of his head with a crack.

* * *

_Never turn your back on your opponent._

It was drilled into him over and over again. But now he’s waking up in the alpha’s cabin. Behind his back, tied around a beam in the middle of the room, his wrists are bound tight with rope.

Woodstove smoke hangs thick and heavy in the air, with the closed windows it makes it hard to breathe. His eyes adjust as he looks around the dim cabin.

On the table in front of him are his guns and knife. The alpha stands at the kitchen sink with his back to Stiles.

His head pounds from the hit. There’s no other side effects though so he counts himself lucky.

None of this is going to plan. He has to adapt. The Hale alpha is more powerful than any other alpha werewolf Stiles has come across in his years of hunting. None of them could take four bullets of that strain of wolfsbane and still be standing, let alone strong enough to fight.

The alpha turns around. At some point, he changed out of his clothes into clothes that were no longer bloody and ripped apart. He moves with ease, which tells Stiles he’s already fully healed. How long was Stiles out for?

“We’re going to try this again,” the alpha says. He stands tall above Stiles, looking down with an apathetic expression. “Who are you?”

No sense in lying now. The chances of Stiles making it out of this one are pretty slim. “Stiles,” he says. The alpha raises his eyebrows, imploring for more information. “Ex-FBI agent, turned hunter, looking for scumbags like you.”

The alpha chuckles, his lips pressing into not quite a smile, but more like a self-amused smirk. “Scumbags like me.” He crouches down and pulls Stiles’ head back with a rough grip in his hair, smacking it against the wooden beam. Stiles winces. “What exactly have I done to deserve the title of scumbag?”

“I’ll give you credit where credit’s due, you’ve covered your trail well,” Stiles says. “But it’s only sooner or later the pile of bodies are found.”

The alpha releases his grip on Stiles’ head. “And the pile of bodies you leave behind? Will they be found?”

“Anything I’ve killed, deserved it.”

The alpha stands up, crossing his arms, he stares down at Stiles like he doesn’t know what to do with him. “Who sent you?”

“Like I said, it’s a job posted to a bulletin. Anonymously. I don’t know who hired me, and quite frankly for the price of your head, I don’t really care.”

The alpha grabs a chair from the kitchen table and drags it over, sitting down, he leans his elbows on his knees. His stare is intense, scorching, running over Stiles as if he could see more than just the hunter on the outside. “What if I told you I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it?”

“You have blue beta eyes, try again.”

“So, there’s no code for you? You just hunt whoever you want?”

“I hunt the ones with the biggest paycheck at the end. Nothing personal.”

“What are you being paid for this job?”

“One million to bring you in alive. Five-hundred thousand to bring you in dead." Stiles shrugs. "I like a challenge.”

The alpha rubs his beard, thinking, before he speaks again. “I’ll double that if you track down the person who posted the job.”

It goes against the unspoken code of solidarity between hunters. But then again, Stiles isn’t a part of the hunters like that, he has always been in this for himself. To gain his own answers to a long unsolved case. The money has just been a bonus.

The Hales have connections to the supernatural world that run deeper than any hunter connection. Maybe the alpha has the answers to his questions, or would know where to find the answers.

“How do I know you have that kind of money?” Stiles asks.

The alpha thinks for a moment, and then he walks up the stairs to the loft. There’s a rustling around upstairs for a few minutes, during which Stiles tries to wiggle out of the restraints but they just feel like they get tighter. The alpha comes back down with a duffel bag. He grabs out a stack of bills. The paper band around them says $10,000, he throws it to the ground in front of Stiles and tilts the bag so Stiles can see the rest of the money.

Stiles forces his mouth closed before the alpha sees the look of shock on his face.

“Satisfied?” the alpha says. "Or would you like to count it?"

“Fine,” Stiles says. “Two million dollars and I’ll find the person who hired me. But I have a couple conditions.”

“I don’t know if you’re really in a position to be making demands.”

“One, you’ll untie me, I’ll be free to move around as I please. Two, you can keep my guns, but I get my knife, that way if you attack me I can at least protect myself.”

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s fine, then kill me,” Stiles says. “I’ve been ready to die for a long time, it’s not the threat you think it is.”

They stare at each other, Stiles knows his heartbeat stays steady.

The alpha’s jaw clenches. “Fine. You can have your knife.”

“My last condition. There’s some information I’ve been looking for, something you may be able to get, I want you to ask your little wolf pack puppies, see if anyone knows anything.”

“I don’t have a pack.”

“That’s right... you got them all killed, didn’t you?”

The alpha’s nostrils flare with anger. Obviously, Stiles struck a nerve. It's satisfying.

“I know you’re connected to Satomi Ito.” The alpha’s face twitches with a silent confirmation. “There ya go, start with her.”

“What’s the information you want?”

“Anything about an attack in Beacon Hills fourteen years ago. The victim’s name is Claudia Stilinski.”

“The sheriff’s wife?” the alpha asks.

“Yes.” Stiles pulls against the restraints. “Are you going to undo these?”

“How can I trust you not to attack me?” the alpha says. “You’re out for blood and don’t seem to care who you get it from.”

“I gave you my word, I wouldn’t go back on it.”

“Didn’t you give your word to the person who posted the job?”

Stiles laughs, leaning his head back against the beam. “Yeah, guess I did, and maybe I’d turn on you if the price was right, but then again, you’re giving me something I’m not getting from them.”

“The information.”

“The information,” Stiles confirms. “So?”

The alpha undoes the restraints, backing away uneasily, he keeps himself between Stiles and the table of weapons.

Picking himself up off the floor, Stiles rubs the raw skin of his wrists. “I assume you’re not going to let me go back to my car alone?”

In response, the alpha crosses his arms.

“Well, I’ll need access to the internet to do this, and by the looks of it, you don’t even own a computer.”

* * *

It’s midnight by the time they hike back to Stiles’ car and drive to the nearest place with accommodations. They get a room at a motel on the outskirts of the town, along the highway. It’s disgusting, but Stiles has stayed in worst places.

While the alpha sits on the couch, keeping his gaze on Stiles, Stiles makes ramen with the kettle he brings from place to place. He may be doing it just to piss off the alpha, who’s glare deepens with every minute Stiles takes to make the food.

“Want some?” Stiles taunts.

The alpha somehow manages to look angrier.

“Why would a person offer more money to abduct you?” Stiles asks absently as he stirs the softening noodles.

“They probably want information first,” the alpha says. “And then they’ll kill me.”

Stiles twirls the noodles on the plastic fork and leans back against the table. “Can you think of anyone who wants you dead?”

“It’s probably easier to make a list of people who don’t.”

They stare in silence at each other as Stiles eats. Sizing one another up. Stiles makes mental notes of the alpha’s fighting techniques, which are less about skill and more about brute strength. For a human going against werewolves, Stiles needs the skill of fighting. A well-placed kick or punch could be the difference between life and death for him. He has no idea what would bring the Hale alpha down. A wolfsbane bullet to the head would probably do it. But he doesn't have a gun. They're locked up in their cases in the trunk of his car, not exactly easily accessible if he needs them in a moment's notice.

Stiles finishes the noodles and tosses the empty cup in the garbage before he turns to the alpha who hasn’t moved an inch on the couch.

“I need sleep,” Stiles says. Is it stupid to be entirely vulnerable in front of the man he tried to abduct? Yes. But he doesn’t think the alpha will hurt him, at least not yet, he already had plenty of chances to kill Stiles and didn't. Stiles needed sleep, he couldn’t remember the last time he got a full night. His body ached from the past couple days of hunting. If he didn't sleep now, he would be of no use if it came down to a fight between them.

He doesn’t take off any of his clothes that are caked in dirt and dried blood as he sits down on top of the covers. He leans back against the headboard with the knife in his hand.

“You can sleep,” Stiles says. “I’m not going to attack you or anything.” He waves the knife around. “This is for my own protection.”

The alpha stays on the couch, assuming the position of guard dog.

“Up to you.” Stiles flicks off the light next to the bed, bathing the room in darkness, and his body doesn’t feel the same threat that his mind does, he passes out quickly under the stare of an alpha werewolf.

* * *

In the morning, he wakes with a start. Nightmares disturbing his sleep like usual. He’s still sitting up against the headboard, and there's a cramp in his neck from the awkward angle. The alpha is still on the couch with his head drooped down in sleep, so much for a guard dog. Stiles gets up and kicks the coffee table. The alpha springs up, reaching for the threat, Stiles easily dodges the movement.

“Why don’t you lay down in a bed and get some real sleep?” Stiles says, tucking his knife into its sheath on his calf.

The alpha doesn’t respond.

Rubbing his face, Stiles stretches and cracks his back, the alpha’s gaze drops down to the strip of skin where his shirt has risen up. “I need coffee and breakfast. Want to run out and get us some?” Stiles asks.

“So you can take off?”

“Fine, we can go together.”

“Why don’t you sit down and do your job instead?”

“I don’t know about you, but I need food to function like a human being,” Stiles says.

He peels off his destroyed shirt and jeans, leaving himself in a tight pair of underwear while the alpha watches. Digging through his bag, he can feel the alpha's hot stare on his back and it sends a thrill up his spine. He's killed a lot of werewolves, but he's never teamed up with one. Never had to trust one enough to know that they won't rip his throat out the second they got a chance, and it's that fact right there—that the Hale alpha could decide to kill him at any point and Stiles would basically be powerless—that drives a rush of exhilaration through his body. He pulls on blood free, but not necessarily clean, clothes and rubs on a new layer of deodorant. Good enough.

At the local coffee shop, they draw the attention of other people. Stiles with his bruised and cut up face. The alpha draws attention for an entirely different reason, his attractiveness doesn’t escape Stiles’ notice, or anyone else’s for that matter. He wonders what they look like together. What people are assuming about the two of them.

Bringing their breakfast back to the room, Stiles sits down at the table with his laptop. He takes a bite of the chocolate chip muffin. “Okay, so my expertise when it comes to computers is fairly limited,” he says through a mouthful of food.

The alpha sits down across from him, drinking his black coffee and picking at the blueberry muffin he ordered. “I’m not paying you two million dollars for nothing.”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Stiles says. “I have a back-up plan.”

He fiddles with a few ideas to track down an IP address or anything linking the post to a specific location or identity. But the website is top of the line, considering it’s entirely illegal. It's way above his pay grade. He was always the brawn of the team, a fact that would have most people who knew him when he was younger howling with laughter.

After an hour, Stiles rubs his eyes, sighing. “Okay, plan B.” He pulls out his phone.

The alpha grabs his wrist before he can make a call. “You’re not getting anyone else involved.”

“Don’t worry, Danny’s discreet, and he’s probably the only one who can find out this person’s identity.”

“Then why am I paying you the money?”

“Two reasons really, you don’t know how to contact Danny nor could you get him to do what you need done. And also, when we find out this person’s identity, who do you think is going to help you kill them?” Stiles says. “Danny’s a shit shot.”

"Two million dollars is an expensive murder-for-hire," the alpha says, his fingers still gripping Stiles' wrist tightly. "I can kill whoever it is myself."

"Wanna bet?" Stiles says. "This person probably has themselves surrounded by hunters. They're offering a _million_ dollars for you, you think they don't have resources? Huh? You don't stand a chance going up against them alone. But hey man, it's your life, if you want to gamble with it be my guest."

The alpha stares at him, obviously calculating the risk before he sits back, letting Stiles' wrist go. “Fine. Call him.”

Stiles pulls up Danny's contact. "Plus, look at this way, it's not just murder-for-hire with me, you also get to have my sensational personality around for a few days." He licks his lips and shoots the alpha a smirk, who returns it with his signature glare. "All right, all right." He presses the call button.

Danny picks up after four rings. “No,” he says.

“That’s what you always say, Danny boy.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you,” Stiles says.

“After that last job, I don’t need to.”

“This isn’t a normal job,” Stiles says. “I need you to track down the person who posted the bulletin.”

“And have hunters come for me in retaliation?” Danny says. “No.”

“You know how to cover your tracks better than any hunter knows how to uncover them. One hundred thousand dollars. That’s how much you can make from this.”

“Three hundred thousand.”

Stiles laughs. “No way. All you do is sit behind a computer. One fifty.”

“Two fifty.”

“Deal.”

“You know where to send the information.” The line clicks as Danny hangs up.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “See?” He finishes off his cold coffee. “Now, it’s time for you to follow through on your part of the deal.”

“I can’t just call Satomi up,” the alpha says. “I’ll have to go to her.”

Stiles stands up. “Let’s get going.”

“I’m going alone.”

“Like hell you are.”

“What do you think she’s going to do if I show up with a hunter in tow? She controls the largest pack on the West Coast.”

"What happened to not letting me out of your sight?" Stiles says.

"I guess it's a risk I have to take."

Stiles runs through their options. “I’ll wait in the car.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“You’ll be the one to run off and go into hiding, I’ll lose out on two million dollars and have a bunch of hunters coming for my ass.”

The alpha presses his lips together in a line but he stands up, grabbing his leather jacket from where it was draped over the chair. “Give me your phone.”

“What? No!”

“You have full access to your hunting buddies, and I don’t want you going after Satomi’s pack. So, give me your phone.”

Stiles groans and hands it over. “I can’t wait for this job to be over.”

“Really? For me, it’s been a joy working with you,” the alpha says.

“Shut up.” Stiles snaps his laptop closed. “Let’s go.”

Turns out Satomi is located in Beacon Hills. Stiles runs his fingers over the long scar stretching from his wrist to his elbow, calming his racing heart as they pull up to the edge of the preserve.

“If you follow me, I’ll kill you,” the alpha says. “Job or no job.”

“Yeah, yeah, just hurry up, I’m hungry.”

The alpha scowls at him before getting out of the car.

Stiles' guns were moved into the hotel room so he couldn't access them while the alpha was talking with Satomi. Stiles feels naked without them. Especially walking into Satomi’s territory.

Memories from the last time he was at the preserve race through his mind. The pain of claws tearing through his flesh, blood soaking his favorite sweater, the screams he can never forget. The ones he hears every night in his nightmares.

Already he's starting to get antsy just sitting there, he pulls down his sweater's sleeves, wanting a hit more than he has since he got clean. How long will this take the alpha? Why did Stiles insist on coming? This was a stupid idea. A stupid fucking terrible idea. The air is quickly running out in the small car. His chest pulls tight. Sweat collects at the base of his neck, a single bead slips down his spine. The thoughts—the memories—are uncontrollable here. In the preserve. Among those trees. The same trees where he abandoned—where he had to abandon—no he didn't have to leave her. He could have stayed. And what? Left his dad wifeless and childless? _He still ended up like that,_ Stiles thinks, _you keep abandoning people._

He all but falls out of the car, stumbling over to the edge of the forest, he leans against a tree and presses his cheek against the rough trunk.

_You were a kid. You were a kid. You were a kid._

He’s too exposed standing on the edge of the parking lot. He'll be seen. He'll be found. The branches scrape against his face as he tumbles through the thick brush, trying to find safety, somewhere to hide.

_“Stiles! Run!”_

A twig snaps nearby and he takes off in a sprint. Gasping for breaths, the forest blurs around him. Where is he?

He spins around, looking for something he recognizes. Trees stripped bare from cold weather loom over him. There’s nothing else around. _Fuck!_ Where is he?

Blood. Too much blood. It coats his arm, he can feel it run down his hand, dripping on to the ground. Blood spraying. Flesh tearing. Screams for him to run.

_"Run Stiles, run! Don't look back!"_

He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. _Worry about the blood later. Get to safety now. Do what she's telling you. Run. Run faster._

There's a loud growl. The screaming falls quiet.

"Mom!" he shouts. "Mom, where are you?" His voice turns hoarse as he continues to yell. Why did he leave her? Why would he leave her? _"Mom!"_

He stumbles over a tree root. Catching himself on the trunk, his hand isn't covered in blood. It's clean. Pale. Not covered in blood. He yanks up the sleeve of his sweater. There's no open wound, just a white scar.

Leaning back against the tree, he slides down, not knowing what's real anymore and what are memories. He digs his fingers into the cool damp earth, trying to hold onto something that feels real. He's not a kid anymore. He's older. His mother is—

Something’s crashing through the branches. They snap and break as whatever it is gets closer. He has no energy left to run. He's so tired. So tired.

“Stiles!” It’s not a woman’s voice. It’s deeper, a man. It snaps Stiles back to reality. “Stiles!”

With shaking arms, he pulls himself up until he’s leaning back against the tree hunched over.

The alpha— _Derek_ —Derek breaks through the bushes and looks relieved to see Stiles for some reason. “What the hell are you doing?” he says.

Stiles holds up his hand. He’s too winded to talk. “Just—” he gasps for a breath — “give me a second.”

Letting Stiles collect himself, Derek stands by silently. The world comes back to Stiles slowly. The sounds of distant birds come first, followed by the whistling wind, and rustling of leaves. The autumn air cools his heated face and he lets out another deep breath, leaning his head back against the tree.

“I swear I wasn’t trying to run from you.”

“I know,” Derek says. “But it’s not a good idea to keep hanging around, Satomi has people all over these woods.”

Stiles takes a shaky step away from the tree. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

It takes them awhile to get back to the car. He’d run farther than he remembers. The panic made all his thoughts irrational.

Stiles slides in the passenger seat even though it's his car. Derek hands over his phone, apparently trusting Stiles now that he’s seen how fucked up Stiles really is.

“Did Satomi know anything?”

“Nothing substantial. She said that Claudia Stilinski’s killer was an alpha that just lost his own pack."

“That’s it?” It’s the only bit of information Stiles has. That, and his own distorted memories of the attack.

“The attack happened years ago, during a time of disturbance among local packs. One dead human wasn't a concern for them."

Stiles digs his thumb into the scar on his arm, his blood boiling with Derek's comment.

“She said she’ll reach out to some of her contacts, see what people know.” Derek starts the car. “Anything from your friend?”

“Danny’s an ex. Not a friend.” Stiles checks his phone for missed calls. “And no. Nothing.”

It’s dinnertime by the time they get back to the motel, which they pick up from a nearby fast food place and eat at the table in the room.

Dirt is caked under his fingernails from where he dug them into the earth. His body is still weak from the panic attack, and he’s thankful that Derek’s around at least for protection because he’s not sure how well he could protect himself at the moment.

Stiles tosses the rest of his burger in the garbage. “I’m going to shower.”

For a shitty motel, the water pressure is divine. He leans his hand against the tiled wall and lets the water wash off the past day, watching the old blood and dirt turn the base of the bathtub a reddish brown before swirling down the drain. It’s a night when usually he’d go out searching for somebody to fuck, or to fuck him, he isn’t picky. But there’s no way Derek would let him leave.

And because he’s all kinds of fucked up, he gets hard just thinking about the alpha sitting in the other room. He wants to get his hands and mouth all over Derek and the frustratingly perfect body he knows the alpha must have. He wants Derek to fuck him until the only thing he can feel is Derek’s cock. At this point he’d even take the opportunity to just blow Derek. Something, anything, to keep his mind off of earlier today.

Stiles digs the dirt out from underneath his nails and washes himself more thoroughly than normal, before getting out and wrapping the small motel towel around his waist. He leans his hands on the sink and stares at the mirror, his reflection distorted by the shower steam. Was he really going to do this? His insistent boner pressing against the towel says yes.

A muffled shout draws his attention away from his cock. Something in the main room crashes down with a loud bang. Stiles pulls on his jeans discarded on the bathroom floor and grabs his knife sitting on the counter.

He listens for what the noises could be, but doesn’t hear anything else. Slowly, and as quietly as possible, he opens the door just enough he can get a look at the situation.

Derek’s on the ground. Standing above him are two young kids, probably still in high school, the boy has a long stick with a pointed end pressed against Derek’s chest.

The girl stands with a pistol pointed at Derek’s head. “Guess the Hale Alpha isn’t all that powerful,” she says, laughing. “Garrett, pass me the syringe.”

All Stiles has is his knife. His guns are still in the top drawer of the dresser, unloaded and locked in their cases. He looks down at the knife in his hand, he’s got one shot. He has to make it count. Before he can make a move, the guy, Garrett, reaches into his pocket, taking one hand off the long stick. Deadly decision.

Derek grabs it, wrenching it away. Stiles moves forward with the distraction. He reaches Garrett as the kid’s wrapping a wire around Derek’s neck. The girl lets out a scream.

Stiles pulls Garrett into a chokehold and presses the knife against his throat. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Drop the wire. Step away from him.”

Derek is hunched over the girl, the spear driven through her stomach. Her hands are coated in blood as she holds the spear. It's not clear whether Derek hit any organs. Either way, her chances of survival aren’t good.

“If you want your little girlfriend to live, I suggest you talk fast,” Stiles says. “Are you here because of a job posting?” Garrett struggles in Stiles’ grip. Stiles tightens his arm and presses the knife harder against Garrett’s neck. “You really want to test me?” Stiles says. “I’m only going to ask one more time. Are you here because of a job posting?”

“Yes!” Garrett shouts. “Yes!”

Derek looks over his shoulder, nodding, telling Stiles that the kid’s being truthful.

“How’d you find Derek?”

“We—we went to the coordinates, but when nobody was there, we checked in to the motel. We just happened to see him through the window!” Garrett says. “I swear, it was just luck.”

“Some dumb luck at that,” Stiles says and throws Garrett onto the ground. Drops of blood drip down Garrett’s neck from where the knife had nipped the skin. “I’ll take that syringe.”

Garrett pulls it out of his jacket pocket and hands it over. “Please, let us go, Violet’s going to die.”

“That’s not really my problem, is it?” Stiles says, he presses his foot against the kid’s chest. “Do you know who posted the job?”

“No, it’s anonymous.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Derek says.

Stiles nods. He keeps his eyes on Garrett as he picks Violet’s pistol off the floor and unloads the magazine, letting it fall to the ground with a clatter. “Get out of here, and don’t come back.”

Derek pulls the spear-thing out of Violet’s stomach. Garrett helps her to her feet, they stumble out of the room.

Stiles chains the door behind them, watching through the window as Garrett helps her into a small car and speeds away. “What’re the chances she survives that?” he asks, turning around.

Derek looks at the bloody spear in his hands. “They were just kids,” he says.

“A lot of people can use a million dollars.” Stiles tosses the empty gun on the table. “Well, I suggest we pack up and get out of this town before more people come looking for you.”

“How long will that job posting be up?”

“I get sent jobs directly. If I accept the job, the posting doesn’t go live, if I don’t, it gets posted to the public bulletin. I accepted, not sure how they saw it. Maybe it’s been too long without a check in and they figure I’m dead.” Stiles packs his laptop away into his bag. "Whatever the reason, there's definitely more hunters on their way, so let's not stick around to find out just which one will be able to take you down."

Derek snaps the spear in three pieces, throwing it out along with the trash of their dinner. “I need a few things from the cabin,” he says. “I can’t stay there anymore.”

Stiles pulls on a shirt, not missing Derek’s lingering gaze. The remaining rush of the fight fuels his own arousal. It’ll have to wait, they have more pressing issues now.

They clear the room out. There's a large blood stain on the floor from Violet, but the dark red carpet manages to obscure what it is. They throw the hunters’ weapons out with the trash in a random diner's dumpster along the way. At Derek's place, Stiles stays in the car while Derek goes into the cabin. He gave Stiles back his guns. Apparently, he doesn’t think Stiles is the enemy he has to watch out for now.

Stiles reloads the pistol's mag Derek had emptied, keeping his eye on the surrounding area. Who knows who else will be coming? Whoever posted the job really wanted Derek.

He wonders how long Derek has been living here. Alone in a rundown cabin with just the Californian wilderness to keep him company. Has he been here since he went off the grid? Or does he move around? Does he get lonely?

Stiles suspects he’d also be a hermit in the woods if he had the same history as Derek. The fire that claimed the lives of eight Hales. The murder of his sister, the alpha. The discovery of his other younger sister, miraculously still alive all those years after the fire, and then her murder along with the murders of three of his betas.

Derek comes out with a duffel bag and a banker box. Stiles’ life could be packed up in the same way. It _was_ packed up in the same way, he keeps everything he owned in his car, carting it around motel to motel, job to job. He doesn't have a place to go home to, he hasn't in years.

Derek tosses his things in the backseat of Stiles' car and they start the drive to another, safer, city together. For now, they’re stronger as a team.

* * *

It’s another late night. Stiles’ eyes are shutting by the time they pull off the highway. They switched up drivers an hour in because Stiles was having a hard time staying awake, so Derek's the one that drives them to the parking lot of a nice hotel.

“Classy,” Stiles says, not remembering the last time he stayed at a place that didn’t make his skin feel grimy.

"Motels smell horrible," Derek says as a way of an explanation. They get out the car almost in sync. “We should stay in the same room, I'll pay,” Derek says, pulling his bag out of the back of the car.

Stiles tugs his own backpack onto his shoulder. “Makes sense to me.”

The moment they get in the room, he face-plants in the puffy duvet, moaning as the ache in his body decreases with the comfortable bed. “Oh my God, I think I’m in love with you right now,” he says.

“Are you talking to me or the bed?” Derek asks. It’s the first time there’s a hint of amusement in his voice, even verging on friendly.

“Both, I think,” Stiles says, rolling to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “It shouldn’t be long until Danny has the information for us, but if this person released a public job posting, your problems aren’t going to stop at killing them.”

Derek places his bag on the other bed. “I know.” Not noticing Stiles watching him, Derek rubs his face, he looks exhausted and weak — and so entirely human it makes Stiles pause.

Stiles sits up. “How'd you get blue eyes?”

Derek’s body tenses. His eyes flash with anger. “That’s none of your business.”

“Listen, dude,” Stiles shuffles to the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the ground, “I kind of pride myself on a moral code, I kill werewolves who kill innocent humans. I went after you because your blue eyes mean you killed an innocent. I want to know I’m not making a mistake by helping you.”

“I thought you were in it for the money?”

Stiles shrugs. “Money’s a perk.”

Derek stares at Stiles’ arm and the long scar stretching up to his elbow. Stiles pulls down his sleeves suddenly feeling exposed.

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me why finding Claudia Stilinski’s killer is so important to you,” Derek says.

“Yeah, okay, we’ll bare our souls to each other or whatever,” Stiles says. “Who was it?”

“A fifteen-year-old girl,” Derek says. Stiles sits up straighter, his fingers itching for the trigger. “An alpha bit her and her body rejected the bite, she was dying and asked me to make the pain stop.” He explains it without a drop of emotion in his voice. “The only other people I’ve killed are hunters who come for me and threaten my life.”

“And your uncle.”

“And my uncle,” Derek says. “But your kind doesn’t care about him.”

“To be honest, he sounded like a dick,” Stiles says. And he feels better, knowing Derek’s story, makes what he’s doing worth more than just the money because Derek's innocent. Well, as innocent as an alpha werewolf could be. “Then I’m glad I’m helping you catch whoever’s out for your blood.”

“But I’m a werewolf.”

“Like I said, I only kill the ones who hurt others.”

Derek looks at him curiously. "What about the hunters I've killed? I thought you would want revenge for the death of your kind."

Stiles laughs and shakes his head. "If they were stupid enough to get caught then they deserve whatever they get. I'm not saying hunters are good people, I'm saying we're necessary."

Derek sits down on the edge of the other bed, they’re only a foot apart now, he looks up with questioning eyes. “Why do you want to find Claudia Stilinski’s killer?”

Stiles sighs, he digs through his backpack and pulls out a photograph. It’s creased from the amount of times he's folded and unfolded it. He holds the family photograph out and Derek takes it. “Claudia Stilinski left behind a heartbroken husband...and a fourteen-year-old son who watched her be tore apart.”

“She’s your mother,” Derek says softly.

“Not anymore. Her killer made sure of that.” Stiles takes back the photograph. Taken at his grandparent’s cottage. He’s ten years old in it.

Derek stands up. Sharing-feelings time apparently over. “I hope finding him makes you feel better,” he says.

Stiles doesn’t look away from his mom's smiling face in the photograph. The bathroom door closes with a gentle click and the shower switches on.

It’s the first time Stiles has told anyone the truth about what he saw. Even at fourteen years old he knew if he went around talking about a man shifting into a creature with claws and fangs it’d be a one-way ticket to the mental hospital. He accepted the police’s explanation of a mountain lion attack and shoved the truth deep down, not even telling his dad, Scott, or Danny.

It’s easier for Stiles and Derek to admit their secrets to each other than to anyone else because they won’t see each other again, or maybe because in some way they understood.

He stuffs the photograph back in his backpack and strips down to his underwear before he climbs under the covers. Stiles is almost asleep when Derek comes out in sweatpants and a tight t-shirt. He crawls on the other bed, not getting underneath the covers but he lies down. No attempt to be a guard dog anymore. The room goes dark as Derek shuts off the bedside lamp, and Stiles falls asleep with the knife clutched in his hand underneath the pillow.

* * *

Derek’s dead to the world when Stiles gets up the next morning and cleans himself up. He leaves the hotel in search of breakfast, bringing back a similar order for Derek to what he had the day before.

Derek all but tackles him when he enters the hotel room. “Where the hell were you?” Derek says, his nostrils flaring as he gets in Stiles’ face.

“Oh my God, you need to take a chill pill, I got us breakfast,” Stiles says, pressing the cup of coffee against Derek’s chest. “I think you can trust me enough to know I’m not going to run off on you.”

Derek glares at him, still hovering in Stiles’ personal space, his eyes dart down to Stiles’ lips and back up. There’s a look, the same heated look he's flashed in Stiles' direction since they started working together, and Stiles’ stomach twists with hot sparks.

His mouth curls into a smile. “Do you want it?”

“What?” Derek asks, clearly thrown off by the question.

“The breakfast.” Stiles licks his lips. “Unless you thought I was offering something else?”

Derek takes the coffee from him, and with a quick movement, brings Stiles to his knees.

Stiles is so turned on he barely notices the impact. He drops the paper bag with their muffins and grins, going for Derek’s belt. “Have you been thinking about fucking me as much as I've been thinking about letting you?” With a frantic motion, he pulls open Derek’s pants and pushes the alpha back against the wall.

Not responding to Stiles’ question, Derek leans his head back and squeezes his eyes shut.

Stiles mouths at the growing bulge pressed against Derek’s underwear. “Huh?” he says. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Derek finally grounds out. He grabs Stiles’ hair, stilling him, and pushes down his underwear with his other hand. His cock is big and uncut, precum already collects at the head, and Stiles doesn’t waste any time to swallow it down. He’s aware of how desperate he probably looks, on his knees for an alpha werewolf, and a rush of humiliation accompanied by arousal runs down his spine.

Derek’s cock is heavy against his tongue. Thick in his throat as he relaxes his jaw and let’s Derek fuck his mouth, use him. Tears springing to his eyes as Derek hits the back of his throat. Derek lets out little pants and soft cut-off moans, his eyes are dark and heavy as they focus on Stiles.

Stiles runs his hands up Derek’s muscular thighs, which tense with each thrust. Derek’s ass is round and perfect, and Stiles is wondering if Derek would ever let Stiles fuck him. He wonders how desperate he could make the alpha instead.

He chokes with a rough thrust, moaning from the ache in his throat. Derek’s head hits the wall, he stills his movements, it takes Stiles a moment to catch up. Moving his mouth down to swallow all of Derek’s cock before dragging his teeth lightly up the sensitive shaft. A bitten off groan slips past Derek’s lips. Stiles sucks at the head of Derek’s cock, tonguing underneath the skin. He loves all the sounds coming from the alpha. The needy little noises that urge Stiles on, that ask for more without saying any words.

He grinds his palm against his own bulge which is pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his jeans. He doesn’t remember the last time he was so turned on. Usually he just fucks someone to get rid of the memories, rid of his cravings for a high and the tension in his body. But now he wants Derek in a way he’s never wanted anyone.

And it seems like Derek wants him too. His hands are in Stiles’ hair, tugging mercilessly, they’re down on his throat feeling the way it swallows around his dick, they’re on the back of Stiles’ neck pulling him in closer.

“Fuck Stiles,” Derek growls, thrusting into Stiles’ mouth again.

Stiles moans in agreement and runs his hand up the soft hair of Derek’s stomach, feeling the contours of the abs tensing as Derek moves.

Everywhere they’re connected burns red-hot. There's a roughness, a wildness, about Derek that Stiles loves. He’s not gentle as he fucks in, not careful when he pulls at Stiles’ hair and moves his head how he wants it. He takes what he wants — what he needs.

Stiles’ throat throbs in a way that tells him he’ll be feeling it for a few days. Derek’s eyes flicker red as he comes. His hips still but his vice-like grip keeps his cock deep in Stiles' throat.

As he pulls out, his cock smears spit and cum across Stiles’ lips.

Derek looks debauched above him. His jeans open and pushed down just enough to let his slick cock hang semi-hard, his eyes are still heavy with arousal as he pants, looking down at Stiles with a hungry look that tells Stiles this is far from over.

Stiles’ knees shake as he stands, he licks his lips and raises an eyebrow. “So, are you going to fuck me?” he asks with all the cockiness he can manage.

Derek looks a little shocked, like he can’t believe Stiles just sucked his cock, or maybe like he can’t believe he let Stiles suck his cock. The war in Derek’s head plays out clear as day on his face.

“Just because—” Stiles is cut off by his phone ringing. He only has it set to ring that tone when one person calls. “Ah, shit.” He answers the phone. “Can this wait? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

Derek seems to remember he’s hanging out of his pants because he pulls up his underwear and jeans, tucking himself away.

“We need to meet,” Danny says, on the phone. “And I want more money.”

* * *

They pack up the room in silence. Danny’s phone call sobered them up, made them both realize who they are.

Now, they're driving to meet Danny in a silent car, and he’s replaying the morning and the feeling of Derek’s hands on him and the sounds of Derek gasping with pleasure. Wondering what it’d feel like to have Derek’s cock in him, if Derek would fuck him as roughly as he fucked Stiles’ mouth.

They stop at a gas station outside of a tiny town midway between Beacon Hills and the coast. Danny sounded sufficiently freaked out on the phone and completely paranoid that someone could be listening to them.

Along the far edge of the parking lot is a chip truck and a gathering of empty picnic tables. Stiles sits down on a bench and leans his elbows back on the table. Derek stands nearby looking like a threat with a glare on his face and his hands shoved in his leather jacket.

“Jesus Christ, dude, you’re going to make Danny turn around and hightail it out of here the second he sees you,” Stiles says. “Can you sit down, pretend like you’re a human and not an alpha for five minutes?”

Derek focuses his glare on Stiles, who is immune to it at this point, before he takes his hands out of his pockets and relaxes his face into a semi-neutral expression. “Human enough for you?”

“Not even close. Did that blowjob do anything to relax you?”

The glare is back. “This was a mistake,” Derek says. “We should’ve never gotten involved with each other.”

Stiles smirks. “Do you mean teaming up to track down the person who wants you dead? Or when I sucked your cock?”

“Both,” Derek says. “You’re a hunter, I’m an alpha, there’s only one way this ends.”

“What if there’s not just one way it ends?” Stiles asks. “What if this could be a _‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine, and then we amicably go our separate ways’_ situation?”

The pained expression he's had on and off since this morning returns. “Yeah right.”

Stiles groans and rubs his face, standing up, he invades Derek’s personal space. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Obviously it’s not nothing, you’ve been crankier since getting off than you have been since I tried to abduct you.”

“Exactly, you—”

“Stiles,” Danny says from beside them. They turn to see him standing there with sunglasses and a baseball hat on.

Stiles flashes Derek a look that’s meant to say, _be normal,_ before turning back to Danny. “Hey Danny, how are you?”

“I was fine as of yesterday morning,” Danny says. “Where’s my money?”

“What no hug? It’s been a while,” Stiles says.

“I’m not in the mood, Stiles.” Danny looks at Derek. “Who is he?”

Stiles gestures to Derek. “He’s the one paying for the information.”

Danny pulls a file out of his backpack. “This is everything you need to know, where’s the cash?”

Stiles nods to his car. “In the trunk.” The two of them walk over to the car, leaving Derek to sulk back at the table.

“He’s Derek Hale, isn’t he?” Danny asks as Stiles opens the trunk.

“He can hear you.”

“Stiles, this is dangerous.”

Stiles opens the backpack he and Derek bought and filled with $500,000 dollars. “And this is half a million dollars, isn’t it fun to live on the edge a little?”

“Not like this,” Danny says. He grabs the bag and gives Stiles the file. “Don’t call me again.” He turns on his heel and takes off toward his car.

"It was nice to see you too!" Stiles calls out, holding the file loosely in his hand and watching Danny glance around as if someone would jump out from behind the chip truck to attack him.

Once Danny's car pulls onto the road, Stiles joins Derek back at the picnic table and throws down the file. “There ya go, the person who wants you so badly they’re willing to pay a million bucks. Which I think is a little steep considering you’re a poor conversationalist and have no sense of humor.”

Derek ignores him and grabs the file. Opening the file, he reads it quietly, his face doesn’t change, the tightness in his shoulders doesn’t lessen now that he knows who he’s dealing with.

“Who is it?” Stiles asks.

Derek pushes the file toward him and stands up. Stiles skims over the information Danny uncovered, landing on the name of the person who hired him — _Kate Argent_.

Stiles stays away from Kate Argent, she’s a bit of a legend among hunters, her whole family is, but Stiles doesn’t like the way they worked. Their code of _‘we hunt those who hunt us’_ easily lends itself to killing whoever they want.

“What? Why would Kate Argent hire someone else to abduct you? She’s a capable hunter,” Stiles says.

Derek’s staring off at the horizon of farm fields when he speaks. “I know her,” he says. And that’s a surprise to Stiles, why does a Hale know an Argent? “She’s predictable now, she probably wants to even out the playing field by bringing me to her.”

“Okay, so if you know the way she thinks that’ll give us an advantage.”

Derek turns around and grabs the file from the table. “We’re not going after her.” He starts walking toward the car.

“What? Why not?” Stiles stumbles after him. “You paid good money to find out who’s trying to abduct you, this is even better, Kate’s a huge bitch, and you obviously have unresolved business with her. Three birds, one stone.”

Opening the door to the backseat, Derek’s grabs the bag with Stiles’ portion of the money. “You did what I asked you to do, here’s your cash.” He holds out the bag.

“No—” Stiles pushes the bag toward Derek — “I told you I’d help you kill whoever it was. If you don’t kill her, she’s going to keep sending people after you, or she’ll end up coming for you herself.”

“Let her.” Derek slams the door shut. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to be a coward now.”

Derek drops the bag, his hands curl in Stiles’ shirt and he slams Stiles up against the side of the car. “You have no idea what she’s done,” he says, his eyes turning red.

“She wants to hurt you, that’s all I need to know. This is your chance to get ahead of her.”

“Revenge doesn’t cure your problems.” Derek loosens his grip on Stiles’ shirt but keeps him pressed against the car. “But I’m assuming you don’t want to hear that since you’ve dedicated a life of killing to your own murdered mother.”

The mention of his mom sends a flare of heat through his chest. He pushes Derek so hard the alpha stumbles back. “You have no right to talk about her like that,” he spits out.

“It’s been fourteen years Stiles, how many more people do you have to kill to ease your guilt?”

Stiles throws the first punch, but Derek gets the second, and third. They land on the graveled parking lot, Stiles’ head smacking against the ground as Derek swings at him.

“You’re a fucking asshole!” Stiles shouts, landing a well-aimed punch to Derek’s ribs.

Derek lets out a wheezing breath and Stiles pushes him off, rolling over so he’s the one on top with the advantage and throwing punches Derek barely has time to block. Eventually, Derek catches his wrists, squeezing tight enough to leave bruises so Stiles can’t squirm away.

Derek’s split lip heals in seconds.

Stiles’ own face throbs with pain, he wonders if he looks similar to Derek just without the ability to heal himself.

He sags down. The wind behind his anger gone. They stare at each other, Stiles straddling Derek’s waist, lying in the parking lot of an isolated gas station. How did they get to this point?

Stiles gets up and extends his hand out, helping Derek stand. “Feel better?” he asks.

“No, do you?”

“Not at all,” Stiles says, shaking out his hand that’s sore from all the punches. He picks up the file that fell to the ground at some point and flips it open, looking for an address.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks.

Stiles snaps a picture on his phone of Kate’s last known location. “I’m going to kill Kate, whether you come with me or not.”

* * *

“So our sweet little computer genius gave us Kate’s home address, I say we wait until the middle of the night, sneak in and kill her while she sleeps,” Stiles says while they eat hot dogs from the chip truck.

“Why don’t you just send confirmation you’ve acquired the target, and we meet her at the drop location?” Derek asks.

Stiles adjusts the bag of frozen peas on his right hand before lifting the other bag back up to his left eye. “Because, she won’t show up alone, which means it’s the two of us against any number of hunters. It also gives her the advantage, she’ll be expecting us, she’ll have scouted the location already, maybe even have set up traps.” Somehow, he knocks his fries off the table, and they scatter across the grass and dirt. “Aw man, I wanted those.”

Derek pushes his carton of fries toward the middle of the table while reading the information Danny managed to collect — location, past training, weapons. It gives them a good picture of what they're dealing with. “Wouldn’t her house be giving her an advantage anyways?”

Stiles shucks off the bag of peas from his hand to be able to grab some of Derek’s fries. “Maybe a little, but she won’t be expecting us,” Stiles says. He burns his mouth on the fries.

“Can you even fight in your condition?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles’ face hadn’t fared as well as Derek’s. His right brow had split open and he had to pull it together with the butterfly stitches. His left eye’s puffy as it starts to swell and is already turning a beautiful blackish-purple.

“Please, I’ve had betas hit me harder than you did. For all the rumors out there, you really don’t live up to the hype.”

Derek’s head tilts to the side—like a dog—and he smirks, leaning forward. “That was a lie,” he says.

Right. A human lie detector. Stiles doesn’t back down, he leans toward Derek instead. “Well, maybe some parts of you are impressive,” he says, his eyes flitting down to Derek’s crotch and back up.

"There's a good chance this won't end well for us," Derek says.

"Well, then I guess we'll go down together, won't we?"

* * *

Finding a diner in town with free wi-fi, they spend a few hours looking into the specifics of Kate’s neighborhood and house. According to the information Danny collected, she’s owned the house for ten years. It’s four hours south, in the middle of a gated community.

By now, spending hours in the car with Derek is normal. Derek doesn’t even shut off the radio on him this time. Getting over the fence of the neighborhood is easy enough, but they have to leave the car parked along the main road, which means no quick getaway.

Stiles pulls up his hood and they move silently through the shadows of the backyards. It's strange not to be alone. The prospect of going up against Kate Argent makes him glad to have the Hale alpha beside him.

They stop in Kate's neighbor's yard and look up at the average suburb house. This is by far the closest he's gotten to becoming a murder suspect. All the others were nobodies. Omegas, betas, alphas that were already living off the grid of society. People the police didn't think twice about, but Kate Argent is the daughter of a wealthy patriarch and her death is sure to bring investigations and retribution.

"The lights are all off," Derek says. "I can't see anything."

"According to the information I could find online about the security system installed in these houses, there should be a keypad in the mudroom, we have thirty seconds to get it off and this baby hooked up," Stiles says, holding up the decryptor Danny gave him a while ago.

"Thirty seconds?"

"Yeah. After that, we find Kate."

Derek looks at the house. His mouth pulls down, displeasure written all over his face.

"Derek, sometimes you have to demand your own justice. She wants you dead."

"I'm a predator, but I don't have to be a killer," Derek says.

"I'll put the bullet in Kate. You protect my back," Stiles says and pulls up the neck gaiter to protect his identity. Derek stares at the house for another moment before his jaw sets into a tight clench and he pulls up his mask.

They move out of the shadows, a light turns on from the motion, lighting up the dark path between the houses. They sprint toward the side door that will lead them into Kate's house. Derek breaks the lock off easily, and Stiles starts his mental count.

_One, two, three._

They get in the door. The keypad beeps intermittently, warning them of the impending alarm. Stiles motions to the keypad. Derek rips it off the wall in one easy movement.

_Nine, ten._

Stiles disconnects the keypad’s wires. While Derek holds the small flashlight Stiles gave him back at the car, Stiles matches the wall wires with the colors of the wires on the decryptor.

_Fifteen, sixteen._

The decryptor runs its software, he and Derek stare at each other in the dark of the house, just their eyes visible between their hoods and masks.

_Twenty._

_Twenty-one._

_Come on. Come on._ The beeps stop just as his mental count reaches twenty-nine. He gives Derek a thumbs up before pulling his pistol out of its holster and switching off the safety. He had put on the suppressor, hoping not to draw attention until they were far away from the crime scene.

Derek insists on going first with a solid hand against Stiles' chest. They move silently through the house together. Stiles could get used to having a partner.

They pass by a wall of family photographs, only a couple have Kate in them. He recognizes one man as Chris Argent. Did Danny get the right house? Or is he sending them into a family of hunters?

Stiles cocks the pistol and taps Derek's shoulder, pointing at the pictures. Something's not right. He can feel it with each step.

Derek looks at the pictures and then holds up four gloved fingers before tapping on his chest. Four heartbeats, Stiles realizes. There's four people in the house.

Derek heads for the stairs. When they get to the top, there's six doors lined down the hallway and they're all closed. The situation just got a lot more complicated. There will be witnesses. People left behind who will come for him and Derek. It's another challenge, one he accepts without hesitation. Stiles opens the first door, a spare room with no one in it. Derek leads them forward.

A blaring alarm goes off, it’s deafening. Derek flinches but Stiles moves down the hall faster, throwing open the doors. No longer trying to be inconspicuous. The first is clearly a teenage girl's room, but she's not in the unmade bed. The second is a bathroom. The third is a laundry room.

A door opens at the end of the hall and a small round canister hits the ground, rolling over to them, Derek grabs him and pulls him into the open bathroom. There's a bang, loud enough to make his ears fuzzy. Smoke fills the hallway.

Shots go off as Derek storms back into the hall, Stiles follows. There's a man behind the thick layer of smoke, Chris, if he had to guess. The smoke burns Stiles' eyes, blurring his vision.

"I'll give you ten seconds to leave my house before I shoot to kill," the man shouts.

"I'll give you three," a woman says behind them. "One, two—"

Stiles gets a bullet to his shoulder before she gets to three. He groans and turns around, shooting as best as he can with his blurred vision. The door frame splinter and cracks as he misses. Through the haze he can see blonde hair, a wicked smile, a shotgun clenched in the hands of a woman who’s wearing silk pajamas. He leaves Derek to deal with Chris and charges at Kate.

They collide at the top of the stairs. She's stronger than he expects and sends him stumbling back with a punch to his throat. He gasps for air underneath the mask. The smoke clouds his mind, the blaring alarm pulses through his chest and makes panic rise in his lungs. _Fuck. Fuck._ He finally gets a breath of air and raises the gun, his finger steadying on the trigger, he gets one shot off before something's hitting him across the back of his head.

He blacks out.

Only for a few seconds, but long enough to end up on the ground with Kate straddling him, and another woman with short red hair standing above her.

"Who are you?" Kate shouts, pulling down the neck gaiter and revealing his face.

Stiles coughs from the smoke and throat punch. "Someone you should've never hired."

He drives his knife into her stomach. She shouts out in pain, her mouth gasping open.

Blood runs down the knife to his hands, making his grip slick as he pushes her off. Standing up, he shoves the other woman down the stairs.

Kate’s pushing herself up.

He goes for his gun. Turning his back on his opponent for the second time in the past three days. This time when his opponent comes for him, Derek's there, pulling Kate up with claws that puncture her neck.

Derek presses her up against the wall and pulls down his mask to reveal his shifted face. "Look at me," he snarls.

Kate's eyes widen. "No, how'd you—" She looks at Stiles standing behind Derek. "You're Mischief?"

Stiles pulls up his neck gaiter to cover his face again, holding his knife in one hand, he cocks his head to the side.

"You're a traitor!" Kate shouts. Blood drips down her chin. Derek squeezes his hand tighter around her throat, cutting off her oxygen, and she kicks uselessly at him. As her eyes start to shut, Derek's fingers loosen. Stiles recognizes the struggle going on inside Derek’s mind, Derek's second guessing himself. He knows the feeling, it doesn't feel like self-defense to kill someone in the calm of the storm.

He places his hand on Derek's shoulder. "Let her go, I'll finish it."

Derek turns his head to say something, his gaze focuses past Stiles.

A floorboard creaks behind Stiles and he whips around, just missing the stab of a knife from Chris Argent. It slices through his clothes. Burning as it tears through the skin on his side. But it's not a stab, it's a slice, a graze, and Stiles moves forward, disarming Chris and knocking him unconscious with the butt of his gun.

Kate's used the distraction to her advantage, shooting Derek three times in the leg and making a run for the stairs. Stiles grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her back. She jabs her elbow into his already sore ribs. Again, and again. Until he lets go of her hair. She throws her head back. Colliding with his nose, the hit makes his eyes water. He stumbles backwards. Kate spins around punches him in the stomach, tripping him back onto the ground with a foot around his ankle. She stands over him with her gun pointed at his head.

His chest heaves with a breath. He holds up his hands, the one still loosely clasped around his knife. This is how he’s going to die? At the end of a hunter’s gun instead of a werewolf’s claws?

Her finger drops to the trigger. "You should've never teamed up with the lone wolf," she says.

Standing behind Kate, Derek's bloody and broken just like Stiles, three wolfsbane bullets lodged in his leg.

Stiles laughs. "I like our odds," he says.

With a single motion, Derek grabs Kate and rips out her throat. Blood splatters down on Stiles, he rolls out of the way as Kate's body drops to the ground and she dies with a final gurgled exhale.

Chris is waking up next to them. The other woman has disappeared from the bottom of the stairs. They have to get out of there, the police have got to be on their way, and Stiles wouldn’t do well in prison. Orange isn’t his color.

The alarm’s still going off as Derek drags him from Kate's body, Stiles just manages to grab Kate's gun from her dead hand and his own from the ground, before he lets himself get whisked away.

"The decryptor," Stiles says as they get to the first floor. He stuffs his pistol into its holster. "Can't leave it behind."

Derek swings Stiles' arm over his shoulder and pulls him toward the mudroom, the alarm still blaring, the shouts of Chris Argent swirling into the noise. Derek rips the decryptor from the keypad and they're out the door, in the fresh air, stumbling through the backyards of the quaint subdivision. Sirens wail as the police draw near.

Stiles nods to the fence. "We gotta run through the forest to the main road." He takes his arm from around Derek’s shoulders and bends over, slipping the knife into its sheath and tucking Kate’s gun into the back of his waistband.

"You're too injured."

"We have no alternative, and I’ve had worse," he says. The wound on his side pulls tight, burning, as he scales the fence. His one arm is basically useless at that point. Dropping to the ground, he lands in a squat. Relieved when nothing hurts from the landing.

Derek leads them away in a fast jog. Adrenaline and survival is the only thing keeping Stiles going at this point. Leaving the sounds of sirens behind, they finally get to the edge of the forest along the main road. Derek checks the road for cops before they quickly jump in the parked car and Derek drives them away.

Stiles laughs. "Ding dong, the wicked witch is dead," he says.

Derek's not smiling. He looks down at the bullets in his thigh. "And I'll be dead in a couple days," he says.

Stiles pulls Kate's gun from his waistband. "I got you covered."

Derek looks over at the gun, and then he laughs, pulling Stiles in for a bloody kiss as they race down the highway. Stiles freezes with surprise before he melts into the kiss—their first—while running his tongue along Derek’s.

Someone honks at them and Derek sits back in his seat, guiding the car back into their lane. "How far can you make it?"

"As far as we need," Stiles says. He digs through the bag he left in the car with medical supplies and strips off his shirts slowly and awkwardly, pressing a bandage to his side before dealing with the gunshot wound on his shoulder blade.

* * *

The whiskey swirls around his head, numbing the edges of his pain as Derek digs the bullet out of his shoulder, his other hand holds Stiles still. Stiles’ groans are muffled as he bites down on the shirt Derek gave him, his jaw clenching shut with the burning, aching pain.

They ended up in a hotel just outside of Los Angeles. With their room facing the ocean, and the silver moonlight reflecting off the waves.

Derek drops the bullet in an empty disposable coffee cup.

Pulling the shirt out of his mouth, Stiles closes his eyes and listens to the waves roll in. “Don’t you have some magical ability to take away pain?” he says.

Derek runs a thumb down the back of his neck and pain seeps out of his body with a sharp prickling buzz. It slowly relaxes him. He takes another swig from the whiskey bottle. Preparation for the cleaning of his bullet wound.

The knife cut on his side has already been cleaned, stitched up, and bandaged. He managed to do it himself in the car once he got the bullet wound to stop bleeding. The stitching job was subpar, not that he cared about scars. He’s covered in them.

“This isn’t over just because Kate’s dead,” Stiles says.

Derek pours too much hydrogen peroxide on the bullet wound. It runs down Stiles’ back and soaks the waistband of his boxers. Derek’s not gentle as he wipes away the blood and dirt.

Stiles takes another long drink of whiskey, wiping his mouth. “There’s no way the Argents will let this go.”

“I know.” Derek stitches up his back with a steady but unpracticed hand. “She knew who you were.”

“She knew my pseudonym, an educated guess,” he says. “Nobody knows my real identity and Chris Argent didn’t get a look at my face.”

“What about the other woman?”

Kate had tugged down his mask while the other woman stood by and watched. She could probably point him out in a line up, but tracking him down would be more difficult.

“I’m not concerned.”

“We made things worse.”

“That’s kind of my thing.” Stiles takes a sip of whiskey to stop the memories of his mom’s screams.

Derek sticks the bandage to his shoulder. His fingers linger on Stiles, a soft touch as if Stiles might break.

Stiles leans back in the chair and tilts his head to look up at Derek. “How’s my face?”

“Banged up,” Derek says. “But I don’t think your nose is broken.” He grabs the wet cloth and crouches down in front of Stiles, cleaning his face with a gentler touch than he had for the bullet wound.

At this angle, Stiles can see all the colors in Derek’s kaleidoscope eyes, and he thinks Derek’s quite possibly the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

Derek lowers the cloth. He looks at Stiles like he’s just seeing him for the first time. Their kiss in the car comes back to Stiles, he wants to kiss Derek again, and this time he doesn’t want to stop.

Derek squeezes his knee, apparently feeling the same because he surges up to pull Stiles into a scorching kiss that puts all the other kisses Stiles has been a part of to shame.

Derek’s hands bury themselves in his hair. Their heads tilt in sync to get closer, plunge further into the deep. The kiss burns him from the inside out, growing with each brush of tongues and each small noise Derek makes in response to Stiles’ hands on his skin.

Derek touches him all over. Hands sweep down his throat and across the bare skin of his back, grabbing at his hips to pull him in closer as they stumble over to the bed.

"There's lube— in my— bag," Stiles says between kisses.

Derek breaks away for a moment and pulls the tube out of his backpack along with a condom, throwing them on the bed. Stiles hooks his finger in Derek’s belt loop and pulls him close. Standing at the end of the bed, they fall back together, and Stiles doesn't know if he'd ever tire of kissing Derek. Not with the way Derek holds him like he's someone of value, like he's more than just a predator, a killer. Derek's beard brushes rough against Stiles' skin, no doubt leaving marks behind.

Derek drags his lips down Stiles' jaw to his neck, with a hand in Stiles' hair, he pulls his head back to bite and suck a mark on Stiles' throat. As if Stiles was his to mark. To claim. The sting of the mark mixes in with the overwhelming desire for Stiles to be Derek's for the night, to let him do what he wants, to let him take what he wants.

Derek bites down on his throat, and Stiles moans, his hips bucking toward Derek.

Stiles is already in just his underwear from the wound care. But Derek’s still fully clothed, which needs to remedied right now. He frantically pulls off Derek’s clothes, pushing himself through the pain that tears its way through his shoulder. Stiles knows he should’ve expected Derek to look like a freakin’ Greek God, but it still hits him like a sack of bricks when Derek’s finally standing there fully naked in front of Stiles. There's no evidence of the last two days on his skin.

Derek doesn’t give him a chance to admire, he tears Stiles' underwear in two with his bare hands. Stiles' cock throbs at Derek’s strength. For the first time since he became a hunter, he feels like the captured prey. Derek has a dark look that makes it seem like he's about to devour Stiles. And Stiles will let him.

Derek pushes him onto the bed. Not paying attention to Stiles' injuries or the way he can't move his left arm properly. Derek kneels on the floor, yanking Stiles down the bed to spread his legs and swallow down his cock to the base.

"Fuck. _Shit Derek,_ your mouth _."_ Stiles threads his fingers through Derek's silky hair and fucks up into the wet heat. There's a spike of pain as there's the drag of teeth down his cock. "Fuck," Stiles groans. It's sloppy and fast. Derek brings him to the edge with an expert tongue before he pulls away, as if he can tell the exact moment Stiles is going to come. "I hate you," Stiles mumbles.

"That was a lie," Derek says quietly, and stands up, hulking over Stiles in a way it should be intimidating—and it is—and Stiles' fucked up body gets all the wrong messages.

His cock twitches with precum at the look on Derek's face. Fuck, he wants to give everything over to Derek. Wants Derek to break him apart and leave him in pieces. It's a terrifying and dangerous feeling. Especially only after two days. Especially because Derek's an alpha.

Derek doesn't seem to be aware of anything going on in Stiles' head, he flashes Stiles a grin that's more wolf than man and flips Stiles over.

It's humiliating as he lands ass up and face down into the fluffy bed. But Derek's hands are running over his skin, creating hot pathways of electric sparks. The bed dips as Derek kneels over him and marks his back with biting sucks.

Stiles turns to putty in his hands. He gives himself over willingly, instantly, submitting to Derek and the pure power he holds over Stiles. The hunter at the mercy of an alpha. _Never turn your back on your opponent._

Derek sucks hickeys on Stiles' ass while his slick finger traces around Stiles’ hole. With a whine he's not proud of, Stiles pushes himself up onto his knees because he's not going to just take it lying down. His whole body protests the movement.

His nerves are alive as Derek fucks into him with an insistent finger. It's not enough and too much all at once. Stiles fists the sheets, and the pain is too good, it's as addictive and numbing as the drug he craves. Derek quickly becomes something he loves and hates at the same time.

"Fuck, Stiles, your ass feels amazing," Derek mutters against his skin.

"It'll feel even better around your dick, for fuck's sake, I don’t need gentle," Stiles says and bucks back against Derek's finger. "More, fuck Derek, give me more."

Derek hovers over Stiles' back. Bending over, Derek drags his nose across Stiles' shoulder, taking in his scent, before his teeth press against Stiles' neck. Stiles doesn't have to see to know they’re not human teeth. And it turns him on more than it scares him.

The teeth change, and Derek bites down, drawing a loud shout from Stiles as another finger presses in and pulls him apart. He's aware he's talking, steady expletives and Derek's name, and nothing is coherent. He's baring his neck, begging for more, for Derek.

“Not a cocky hunter anymore,” Derek whispers in his ear, there's the hot drag of Derek's cock across the back of his thighs.

Losing himself in the feeling of Derek, Stiles moans out, “Take me.”

Derek growls and grabs the back of Stiles’ neck, pushing his head down into the bed. There's a third finger pressing at his rim and Stiles goes limp, letting Derek use him. The fingers just barely brush across his prostate, like an itch that can't be scratched.

By the time Derek spreads his ass and presses in with his cock, Stiles has tears running down his face. His wounds pull tight against the stitches. There’s too much whiskey in his stomach, making nausea rise up in his throat. Claws bite into his hips, pulling Stiles back against the cock filling him up with vicious thrusts. The slide of Derek's cock is perfect. So thick it brushes against Stiles' prostate with each thrust and reduces Stiles to throaty moans.

His fingers cling to the sheets. Knuckles going white, his breaths panted out against the mattress as Derek still holds the back of his neck, forcing Stiles to submit.

Derek’s pace doesn’t falter at all. He fucks Stiles how he fights, with inhuman strength and a violent focus. He presses his forearm down against Stiles’ shoulder blades, there's a flare of pain from Stiles' gunshot wound that’s quickly dulled by the growing fire in Stiles' stomach.

“Fuck Stiles,” Derek growls. "Still want an alpha to fuck you?"

Stiles responds with a rasping, _"Don't stop."_

It's like a string pulled too tight. The arousal that coils in his stomach snaps and releases. Stiles buries his face in his arms, muffling his final cry, his ass tightening around the thick cock as his body finally gets the release it needs.

His head rushes, his fingertips tingle, and he knows Derek's ruined him for the rest of his life.

Derek fucks in once more before his fingers tighten on Stiles’ hips to the point it hurts. He comes with a growl. Even with the condom Stiles can feel his cock throbbing in his ass. Derek holds him gentler than just moments ago, pulling out slowly, and helping Stiles lie back against the pillows.

Stiles should be embarrassed by what he said during sex. For the tears drying on his cheeks. And the way his hands shake as he grabs the back of Derek's neck to kiss him. But he's just exhausted.

Derek clasps Stiles' wrists, pulling away from the kiss. "You should take it easy, you're going to pull your stitches."

Stiles laughs. "You say that after fucking me."

* * *

Endlessly, he drifts between consciousness and nightmares. He's aware of Derek wiping down his body with a cloth and re-bandaging his wounds. And then he's running through the dark woods searching for someone he'll never be able to find. The sounds of the ocean float through the open glass door, providing the soundtrack to Stiles being attacked by an alpha werewolf with a mutilated face.

He wants to get up. Stop the nightmares in the one way he knows how, but he's bone-tired. His arms don't cooperate. The shower shuts off, and Derek comes back into the main room.

"Be a dear and pass me the bottle of whiskey," Stiles says, holding out his hand.

Standing next to the bed with just a towel around his waist, Derek frowns down at him. "Is the pain getting worse?”

"The pain of living is," Stiles mutters.

Derek smacks his hand away. "Go to sleep, Stiles."

Stiles hooks his finger in the towel and pulls, the towel drops to the ground. "Get in the bed, Hale."

The room goes dark. The bed moves as Derek climbs under the covers. Stiles moves closer and places an unsure hand against Derek's chest. "Can I get some of that magic pain sucker again?"

Derek's fingers curl around his arm. The only way they’re touching is his hand on Derek’s chest and Derek’s hand on his arm, he finds it more comforting than he should, considering Derek’s an alpha werewolf.

Stiles falls asleep to his pain being drained. It’s the first night in years he hasn’t slept with a weapon in his hands, and it’s the first night since his mom died that the nightmares don't return.

* * *

"There's no news about Kate's murder or even a break-in for that area," Stiles says and flicks off the TV.

Derek sticks a new bandage to his shoulder. "The Argents will want to deal with this on their own."

"What's the chance that old man Gerard comes out of hiding?" Stiles asks, taking an aggressive bite of the bacon they ordered through room service. "I'd like to get a shot at him. Literally."

"Maybe you should focus on your own recovery. Slow down on the hunting." Derek pats his shoulder indicating he's done.

Stiles gets up, ignoring Derek, and pulls on a clean shirt. "It might be best if you get out of California for a bit," Stiles says. "You don't know if Chris Argent was able to identify you, but if he did it's only a matter of time before they come for you." He sorts through his bag before loading his gun with more bullets as he delays the inevitable parting of ways.

"My problem isn't with Chris Argent," Derek says.

Stiles snaps the gun case closed and slides it in his bag. "Why _did_ Kate want you dead?" When Derek doesn't respond, Stiles turns around. "Derek?"

Derek snaps out of his stare, looking up at him. "She killed my family and I’m the one person who knows."

Stiles’ hand freezes on the zipper of his bag. "The fire was Kate?"

Derek nods and sits on the edge of the bed, clasping his hands together. "I slept with her," he admits slowly, like the words physically pained him to say, with his head ducked down. "I thought I was in love, and she killed my family with information I gave her."

Stiles lets out a breath, wondering why Derek's admitting this to him of all people, and sits down next to Derek. “I know that I may have a skewed moral system—”

“May?”

Stiles knocks his shoulder off Derek’s. “You were what? Sixteen at the time? Derek, you were a child, she took advantage of you.”

Derek looks at him with his brows pulled together in a way that reminds Stiles of a hurt puppy. "Some guilt can't be rationalized."

It's more intimate than when they had sex. "I understand, more than I'd like to," Stiles says.

Derek smiles sadly before bending over and grabbing a backpack from the ground. It's filled with 1.5 million dollars. "You earned it," he says. It feels like a dismissal, and Stiles gets the hint.

Standing up, he takes the bag. "By helping you kill Kate? Or by letting you fuck me?" he teases.

Derek smirks. "Maybe a little of both."

"Do you need a ride somewhere?" Stiles asks idly. "I can drop you off at a rental agency or bus station or something."

"I'll be fine."

Stiles grabs his other backpack. Pulling out an extra phone from the bag, he pushes it into Derek's hands.

“Why are you giving me a phone?"

“It has my number in it.”

“Why do I need a phone with your number in it?”

“To hold up your end of our deal,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow. “If you get more information about the alpha from my mom’s attack.”

"Right. I'll call," Derek says.

Stiles slings his backpack over his shoulder. "And I’ll answer." They stare at each other for a few seconds, there's something unspoken, an agreement they'll see each other again. "Goodbye Derek."

"Goodbye Stiles."

* * *

It takes three months for the Argents to find him.

Three months he spends living in the shadows, moving from place to place, waiting for a sign that the Argents have moved on, given up on finding the hunter who betrayed them, or a sign that they're coming. He lives in rundown motels across Los Angeles, eating shitty ramen and take-out.

Three months he spends thinking of Derek and the two days they spent together while watching the marks fade from his skin. It’s the loneliest he’s been in years.

He arrives at a new motel that looks the same as all the others, with his dinner in one hand, he opens the trunk to grab out his bag. The night casts shadows in the parking lot that drag up memories of the attack that killed his mom. A feeling of something's not right washes over him, he goes for the gun hidden in his waistband.

Something hits him across the back, sending him sprawling onto the pavement. He groans and rolls over. "I was looking forward to that burrito," he says.

Chris Argent stands over him with a pistol pointed at his head. "Where’s the Hale alpha?" he says. Stiles' fingers twitch towards his own gun lying next to him. Chris Argent cocks the gun. "I said, where is Derek Hale?"

"I don't know," Stiles says. "I haven't seen him in three months."

There's a titter behind Stiles. "That's not the answer we were hoping for," a man says in a low gravelly voice.

Stiles stares at Chris Argent wondering if he has the guts to pull the trigger on a man lying on the ground. Knowing what family he comes from, tells Stiles he’s as good as dead if he doesn't act fast.

"I can get you his location,” Stiles says. “For the right price."

"You killed my sister, you're lucky if we let you go with your life," Chris Argent says.

"Not so fast, son," the other man says. "Derek Hale ripped out her throat. This man didn't kill Kate." Soulless eyes meet Stiles' as the man crouches down. "What's your price?"

"You can't afford it," Stiles says. Flinging himself up, he head-butts the old man and grabs his gun.

A shot goes off. Stiles kicks Chris Argent in the knee. There's a snap and the hunter crumples to the ground. Stiles rolls over and pushes himself up. He slams the car trunk shut. The old man is back on his feet, weaponless, and Stiles shoots him in the leg twice.

Drive. That's what he has to do. Stiles grabs the keys from his pocket and runs around the side of the car.

Chris Argent is pulling himself up to his feet nearby when suddenly there’s a loud hissing screech that makes Stiles freeze.

Stiles looks up to see a huge lizard creature descend from the roof of the motel. “What the fuck.” He doesn’t wait around to find out what it is, the door isn’t even fully closed as he slams the car into reverse and backs out of the spot. With a loud thud, the car collides with the lizard creature, it seems to stun it enough for Stiles to throw the car in drive and pulls away from the Argent men and whatever the hell the other thing is.

He doesn't slow down—doesn't stop to think—until he's flying down the highway. Pain floods in, he touches his stomach and groans at the sight of the blood on his hand, soaking through his shirt from the fresh bullet wound.

_Fuck._

That's too close to organs. Too close to him being dead. Out the windshield, the road goes fuzzy. He tries to hang on long enough to get somewhere safe.

* * *

He bangs on the door once, twice, and by the third time, he's falling into Derek's arms.

* * *

Puffy, warm clouds cocoon around him, keeping him safe, keeping him comfortable. But the longer he lies there, the more there’s a tugging in his stomach.

 _"Stiles_. _"_

The clouds dissipate. He starts to fall. Faster and faster. Air rushing past his ears.

 _"Stiles, wake up._ "

He starts with a groan. A hand keeps him flat against the bed. Green eyes meet his own.

"Hey," Stiles says with a lethargic smile. "Sorry for bleeding on your floor."

"You bled all over the house," Derek says.

“I thought I told you to get out of California.”

"Good thing I didn’t listen. How did you even manage to drive here?"

"A miracle, I think."

“Who did this to you?”

“Chris and Gerard Argent,” Stiles bites out. “Turns out they’re a bit pissed over Kate.”

“They came for you?”

“Them, and a lizard the size of a human man.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what it was. I’ve never seen anything like it, the thing was terrifying and it didn’t even get close to me.”

Derek’s brows furrow, he looks down as if he’s trying to think of what it could be. “A lizard?”

“I think it was with the Argents.” Stiles winces as a wave of pain takes over any other thoughts.

Derek takes his hand, draining the new pain. "I've done the best I can to stitch up the wound, but I don't know if you have internal damage."

“My—my car.” Stiles tries to sit up, suddenly realizing that he really didn’t get far from the Argents, that there’s a target sitting in the driveway. Derek presses him back to the bed. “They’ll find it, we’re too close.”

“It’s already in the garage,” Derek says. “They’re not going to find it.”

Stiles nods. "Okay. Good."

"How did you find me?"

"I may have been tracking your phone’s location since we parted ways. Just in case."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "You've been stalking me."

"Technically it's not stalking if I'm not physically following you around."

"Let’s agree to disagree."

"Twenty minutes. I just need a nap, and then I'll leave."

Derek brushes the hair away from Stiles’ forehead, it’s almost too intimate. "You don't have to leave," he says.

Stiles is already too far gone to reply.

* * *

Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Derek runs his thumb over the track mark scars on Stiles' arm, gently sweeping back and forth as Stiles comes to. Outside the window, the sun shines with the new day, and the pain in his stomach has eased up.

"Do you always look so worried?" Stiles says.

“I don’t know if you’re going to heal. You lost a lot of blood.”

"I'll be fine." Stiles pushes himself up. Wrapped around his stomach is a snow-white bandage. There’s a constant thrum of pain — but that’s good, pain meant he’s still alive. Taking in his surroundings, he realizes the house is on the beach. The French glass doors open up to the ocean. A breeze washes over Stiles in the bed, and he can hear the distant squawks of seagulls and the waves lapping at the shore. It’s almost peaceful. “Nice place you got here, it’s definitely an upgrade to that cabin."

“It’s not my place. The owners are on an extended getaway.”

“Squatting?” Stiles says. “For a man with your means, I thought you’d buy your own place.”

“I might as well paint a bullseye on my location if I did that,” Derek says. “Squatting keeps the hunters away...well, most of them.”

“I’ve always been special.”

Derek lets go of his arm. "I was going to call you, I got information."

"Information," Stiles says slowly.

"About your mother's killer. The alpha calls himself the Demon Wolf—”

“Great, I’m going after a Bond villain.”

“—he's the leader of the alpha pack now."

“Wait, isn't that the same pack that killed your betas?”

Derek's shoulders twitch with an almost unnoticeable flinch before he nods.

“The man who killed my mom also killed your pack?” Stiles sits up straighter, grimacing with the movement. "What's his actual name?"

"You can't take on the alpha pack yourself.”

"Are you offering your help?"

"We appear to work better as a team," Derek says, looking down at the bandage around Stiles.

His throat tightens. The thought of letting someone in after years of being alone is terrifying. Trusting someone enough to work alongside them. To have a partner he can rely on. But Derek's right. The alpha pack would be almost impossible to bring down alone.

"I guess we do," he says. "So, what’s this bastard's name?"

"Deucalion."

"And we’re going to take him down together?"

"Yes," Derek says. "We'll do it together."

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I have a thing for Stiles hunting under the fake name of Mischief. Thanks for reading. There may be a part two to follow if people are interested :)


End file.
